Wilson's Liver
by John Faina
Summary: This follows the "Wilson" episode and has "'s Liver" tacked on to the title because that organ - or losing a part of that organ - is what it took for them to see the truth.
1. Chapter 1

Irrationally, House was beginning to feel unsettled by the amount of time Wilson spent unconcious rather than concious.

It was obvious that this had painkillers written all over it, but that did little to nothing in the way of soothing his nerves; he had always preferred his best friend's concern-driven, and admittedly annoying, lectures about this and that to complete silence such as this.

Why did Wilson think he had to do the right thing - the _noble_ thing - as often as the opportunity presented itself? What was it supposed to prove?

Self-Important Jerk got another shot at life, sure, but it wasn't as if he gave a damn that Wilson was to blame. He would have taken half a liver from any person ever to have the misfortune of being accquainted with him. Didn't matter. As long as he had all the time in the world to woo his hot, young girlfriend, and completely shun his ex-wife and teenage daughter.

The guy made House want to throw a violent punch to the wall of the nicely decorated hospital room in which Wilson had been living for the past week.

At the end of the day, after having solved yet another complicated case, House had come here, looking forward to mocking a few clinic patients, exploiting Cuddy's latest fun-bag-happy top perhaps, and, in all honesty, he had been hoping to relax by enjoying the dynamics of one of their playful banters when he revealed just how he discovered Self-Important Jerk was back with Miss Happy-Go-Lucky Ashley or whatever the hell her name was.

But, to his disappointment, when he had announced his presence with a witty comment that he had forgotton by now, he had found Wilson lying there, out cold.

The oncologist had upped his painkillers, said the line of drool falling from one corner of his mouth.

House could not wait to grill him pointlessly about this, just to hear the ups and downs of Wilson's voice. The tiny breaks and raspy patches that would require getting shot down in the differential room again - this time in the brain - in order for him to admit to noticing.

He only thought about them now because Wilson could have _died_ on that operation table. He would never have heard them again.

House watched another line of drool fall from the corner of Wilson's slightly agape mouth from his seat in the bedside chair, and resisted a laugh. Wilson was a clean, tidy, pocket-protector-wearing, Boy Wonder type of man. If he knew how utterly..._un_tidy he looked at that moment, it might send him into cardiac arrest. His hair had about two days worth of oil built up in it, and was sticking out in every direction possible, accompanied by the fact that he was clad in a bunched-up hospital gown and covered loosely with faded white sheets, drooling to top it all off. He never drooled. At least, House didn't think he did.

He was suddenly struck by the thought that there were plenty of little details such as that one that he had no clue about. Maybe he snored as well! Somehow, House doubted it.

He needed Wilson to wake up.

He found that he liked this "coming undone" of Mister Well-Adjusted. It didn't happen often - not nearly often enough, and House supposed that wasn't too healthy. But then he realized - that almost _every_ time it had happened, it had been something to do with something _he_ had done, with the exception of _this_ experience. The most prominant instance being when Amber, his girlfriend, had died. But he hadn't liked witnessing that at all. And he most certainly did not like thinking about it.

However, the coming undone of Wilson was usually entertaining proof that he wasn't merely an enabler who lived to follow him around, offering philosophical and personal advice twenty-four-seven, no matter if it _did_ turn out to be correct ninety percent of the time - a fact to which House would never openly admit.

Wilson had an astounding, and sometimes alarming, understanding of him. An understanding of the meanings behind his actions. It was nice occasionally. Refreshing, because this allowed him to be able to march straight into Wilson's office when he had a problem that he couldn't seem to solve on his own. The odd thing was that Wilson seemed to be very in tune with his _subconcious_ thoughts. He always _knew_, even when House didn't.

Take this moment, for example.

Wilson was clearly dead to the world. Yet, here _he_ was, lounging around in the plush chair next to the bed, "reading" some bubbly magazine he had stolen from Thirteen.

It had been three hours.

He should have gone home by now, like had had done every night before this. Why was he staying?

Wilson would probably have a deep, meaningful reason behind it all, though House would deny there was anything deep or meaningful about the situation, and Wilson would argue that there was something on his mind that he needed to rectify. Possibly.

If anything, there was more meaning behind the action of _upping_ already-quite-strong painkillers.

And there was.

House knew that Wilson had come to the realization that _he_ had been right all along in thinking that Self-Important Jerk was, indeed, a self-important jerk. He was angry and let-down. Extremely so.

So much so, that he had chosen to not even deal with his own bitter thoughts and emotions.

House _needed_ him to wake up. They _needed_ to have one of their infamous conversations. Hell, he would take _half_ an attempt.

He was suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a barely audible groan. More like an exhalation. No actual voice involved. Followed by a shift in position, resulting in a grimace and a slurping noise as Wilson sucked up the drool. Then, he turned his head away from House, and slept on, possibly in deeper than before.

House rolled his eyes, set the ridiculous magazine on the small, circular table in front of him (who says ''rents' when it's just as easy to say '_parents_'?), and eased himself out of the chair.

He didn't bother reaching for his cane, which rested against the chair's side; he simply limped around the foot of Wilson's bed, to the other side.

Coming to a halt with a good view of Wilson's emotionless face, House stood there, feeling unbalaced in every sense of the word.

What was he doing now?

Before he had time to over-analyze, he reached out, and pushed his index finger gently into the hollow of Wilson's cheek. It was flushed as he had expected. No reaction.

Well. Now he had his motive. He pulled his finger away.

He put two back, drawing a line to his hot forehead, and down again, stopping under his chin. Not even a hitch in his breathing.

House grinned his _I've found a game to play_ grin, and decided to keep going to see what might get him a subconcious reaction.

He eyes Wilson's oily hair for a moment, considering, before running his fingers through it. His palm inevitably brushed past the heated forehead, and he couldn't resist resting it there, relishing in the rare feeling of lingering contact. The warmth felt very reassuring. Like he was temporarily able to control the state of him. Mental, physical...everything.

Wilson was alive.

And suddenly, touching him to see what he might do wasn't a game.

House ran a hand through his hair a second time, frowning deeply, his eyes bright.

He had almost lost his only friend.

The experience forced him to realize just how important Wilson really was. He could have been totally alone.

This was who he spent most of his time with (when it didn't involve work), with whom he'd had a countless number of memorable conversations, and was just about the only person he genuinely _enjoyed_ being around. The only person he could tolerate.

House's frown deepened as he continued to stroke Wilson's hair, absently brushing it back from his forehead.

And he got a reaction he had not quite anticipated, though it might have been wise.

Wilson's eyes opened.

House drew back as if a snake had shot out at him unexpectedly, stumbling a bit. He managed to spare himself humiliation by inventing an explanation for his actions. Naturally, a joke.

"_Hum_...Seeing as how you increased your pain meds," he said gruffy, "I concluded that you had a giant migraine, which can be explained by the rare parasite in your brain. I was trying to coax it out."

Wilson blinked at him groggily. "Ditto on the zippity-doo-da," he yawned.

House fought back a smirk. "What?"

"What time is it?" His voice was dry and scratchy.

House lowered his head to glance at his watch, to keep from looking at him more than anything, but peered up at him through his eyelids at the words, "Sit down."

Wilson drowsily patted a spot near his legs.

House gave a brief nod, avoiding his gaze, and sat down gratefully. His leg throbbed in protest initially, but the muscle - or what was left of it - soon relaxed.

"What are you doing?" Wilson yawned again. "You need to go home and sleep."

"You tried to put yourself in a coma," House accused, and turned his head to look at him, scooting forward to shake the feeling of legs against the small of his back.

"Not a coma," Wilson disagreed, clearing his throat for better speech. "I just wanted to be out for a while."

"He's not worth that."

"Maybe not," Wilson smiled a little. His brown eyes were beginning to look more clear. The smile was odd. Like he was telling his own private joke that he was waiting for House to suddenly get.

House raised his chin and squinted at him.

"You wanted me here."

"Of course."

"You wanted me to worry about you enough to stay here longer than necessary. Why?"

Wilson's small smile was gone, but his eyes still had wrinkles around the corners.

"And you stayed," he pointed out, ignoring the question. "It's two in the morning."

"Good guess. It's one-thirty," House told him. "I had to make sure you didn't die."

Wilson smirked as best as he could. It was obvious that he was still very tired.

"You knew I wouldn't die."

"Are you going to tell me why you hatched such a clever scheme to get me to stay, or can I go home now?"

Wilson sighed, the hand near House's left thigh twitching.

"Has it ever occured to you that I might need...to be comforted? Or have an actual conversation? I'm sure I've asked you this at least once before."

House pierced him with his sharp blue stare, and didn't miss a beat.

"You should be comforted by the fact that you're not dead."

"House," Wilson snapped in a way that told him he ought to play along. It was the exhausted sort of attempt that did it, though House wasn't sure about the outcome of this game. He met Wilson's gaze evenly, and nodded to show good sportsmanship.

Wilson's expression softened considerably.

"You don't _ever_ touch me," he said in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what House had been doing earlier, and that it had nothing to do with rare parasites.

House blinked.

"Never a pat on the shoulder, or - I don't know - a nudge of the elbow to show that you give a damn."

House took a deep breath. Wilson had to be an _idiot_ not to realize that he gave two damns.

"And yet, somehow," he replied sharply, "I've always managed to get my point across."

"Yes," Wilson agreed, smiling again. "All I'm saying is that it would be nice if you showed your human side. Like you were - "

House raised his eyebrows, having not been _entirely_ certain Wilson had caught the hand in his hair. But of course he had.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because just thinking about your touch makes me melt," Wilson told him with a perfectly straight face.

House rolled his eyes. "I always knew you were secretly a woman."

"Like I said," Wilson chuckled. "It would be _nice_."

"I don't do nice."

"Damn, I was _so_ sure that was you the other day, doing a puppet show for the sick little bald kids," Wilson said, clucking his tongue in mock-disappoinment.

"No, no, that was the guy you gave half your liver to."

Wilson's face darkened. They were silent for a few moments.

"Are you angry?" House asked, genuinely curious.

"Eh," Wilson said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm a little...disappointed."

House watched his throat as he spoke these words.

"Disappointment is anger for wimps. You don't always have to be so gentle about everything. It's okay to get angry once in a while."

Wilson met his eyes again.

"And vice-versa."

House smiled at the comeback, then paused, thinking it over.

Never taking his eyes from Wilson's face, House tentatively reached out and brushed his hair back once more, resuming as if he'd never been interrupted.

"It works for you..." he said softly, closing his eyes.

House then concluded that the painkillers were turning his friend's brains to mush.

That didn't stop him. If anything, it enabled him. Oh, the incredible mind powers of Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist.

"Hm?"

House paused his actions. "What?"

"You said my name," Wilson mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Sorry, I was caught up in a hot, steamy fantasy."

"Oh, of course. Carry on, then."

House grinned appreciatively at the way his voice broke on the word "carry."

He scooted closer without fully realizing it, and ran his whole hand down the left side of Wilson's face. Wilson leaned into his touch, either conciously or unconciously, House wasn't sure. He looked rather exhausted.

Not for the first time, House had the desire to kiss him. Softly and lovingly (not that those exact adverbs entered his mind in the least). But, for the first time, he actually thought about acting on it.

He quickly decided that now was not the time. It seemed like the time, but...no. He would wait. He didn't realize that his thumb had stopped moving over Wilson's cheek, as he stared, deep in thought, until Wilson finally re-opened his eyes.

"You alright?" he asked, hoarse once more.

House didn't answer right away, just kept on staring blankly at his lips.

Wilson searched his face curiously, but said nothing more.

Eventually, House blinked and drew in a breath. "I almost lost you."

In an instant, Wilson's eyes were sad. This expression meant a number of different emotions, but it was apparent at this moment, that they meant he felt touched. Sorry even. He still said nothing.

"It is a mark of how important you are to me that I'm going to say this," House continued, his hand remaining stationary. "I love you."

Wilson's eyes, which were totally clear now, widened in surprise. Then, filled up with tears.

"Oh, Wilson," House muttered, trying to conceal his amusement. "You're as vulnerable as they get." He knew he would be met with this reaction, and he'd mentally prepared himself for it.

Wilson nodded against his pillows, one tear sliding down into House's hand. "C'mere."

House moved his thumb over Wilson's prominant cheekbone, getting rid of it. Though it wasn't as prominant as it used to be, he thought Wilson was aging very well.

"I'm not going to hug you."

"Why not?"

"You're too sore. I'll hurt you."

"Do something else, then."

"Blowjobs are out of the question."

"Oh," Wilson said, looking dejected. "Damn it."

Before House knew what was happening, what exactly he thought he was doing, he had leaned down until he felt breaths ghosting his mouth, and Wilson's nose pressing into his right cheek. He froze, staring into Wilson's wide, wide eyes.

Then, he pressed their lips together and their eyes snapped shut.

Both seemed afraid to go any further. But eventually, Wilson's mouth began to move softly and slowly against his due to lack of proper energy. House didn't mind in the slightest. This was an act that screamed _go slow_.

He slid his hand from the side of Wilson's face to his neck, his thumb now stroking his earlobe, feeling the steadily increasing pulse under his palm. Neither had noticed the heart-rate monitor.

Wilson's own hand came up to rest on his arm.

After a few seconds, House pulled back, but kept an arm on either side of him, hovering so that their faces were only inches apart.

"Oh my God," he whispered, unable to help himself.

"Now, _that's_ comforting," Wilson grinned, his eyes as cloudy as they had been when he'd first woken up.

"I wouldn't call that comforting so much as painfully arousing," he joked, but not jokingly. Not really. Not at all.

For the first time, House thought perhaps _ever_, Wilson's cheeks flushed a deep pink. He blinked up at him, unresponsive.

"Ah," House said knowingly. "You thought so too."

The thought sent a jolt to his lower region. Not able to resist, he pressed his lips to his forehead and made his way downward, stopping only when he was able to feel the fierce pulse against his mouth. He rested there, relishing the sensation.

"House," Wilson murmured, sounding terrified. His voice broke. "We're in a hospital."

House kissed his throat and sat up.

"All the more reason for you to make a speedy recovery."

Wilson appeared to struggle with himself.

"I - I didn't say I wanted you to stop."

Concealing his delight - and smirking - House leaned down and continued his exploration of Wilson's face, neck, and collarbone. Then, he went so far as to move the hospital gown aside and kiss his chest, one of his hands accompanying him. He didn't go any further than that though the flimsy gown made matters very simple.

At one point, Wilson emitted a breathless groan that caused the hair of the back of House's neck to stand on end.

"House - " he gasped. And he noticed the grimace of pain.

Immediately, he sat up, furious with himself.

Never breaking eye contact, House gently peeled back the sheets of the bed, and placed his hands as softly as he could on Wilson's middle. He felt around for the bandage. It didn't take long. With Wilson watching him curiously, he began to lightly trace his fingers around the edges of the bandage, where there was skin. Under normal circumstances, Wilson's stomach muscles might have contracted, which would have worsened the situation, but given that he was too weak, and the bandage too heavy, the touch was welcome. Pleasant.

He knew it was, because Wilson sighed involuntarily and sunk deeper into his pillows.

"Thank you."

House nodded, staring at him in such a way that Wilson's eyes grew sad again.

"House - I'm fine. It's okay."

They looked at each other with such emotion that House could hardly believe any of it was real. But only Wilson would be capable of instilling these emotions in him. Only he would ever be allowed to witness them.

"Hurry up and get better," he said quietly.

Wilson smiled at him. "Another few weeks. It'll go by like the blink of an eye."

House caressed his stomach, his ears ringing. "I'll come by every night."

Wilson grabbed his hand, pressing it flat against him. "You already do," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I love you too, House. You're a good friend."

"I said it first."

"Doesn't matter. Go home and sleep so you can go to work tomorrow."

House groaned.

"You have to do it."

"Piss off."

Wilson chuckled and patted his good leg. "Come on. Go home. You look terrible."

"Really?" House said, standing. "_You_ look fantastic."

"Don't forget your cane."

House limped over to the chair he had occupied for most of the night, snatched up the cane, and his backpack that he always carried to work with him. Then, he returned to Wilson, who looked up at him.

House rested a hand on top of his head, rubbing it - hesitating - then bent down to kiss him.

It was just as slow as before, but after a minute, Wilson opened his mouth, clearly desiring something less chaste.

House became so involved in the feeling of their battling tongues, that he barely noticed when the backpack thumped to the ground. Wilson grabbed hold of his shirt collar.

House answered with a groan, and broke them apart to kiss every inch of skin exposed to him.

Finally, Wilson pushed him away with a meaningful look.

"Alright, fine, fine. Bet your painkillers will do wonders for you now." House stooped to gather his bag.

Wilson rolled his eyes as he headed for the door.

When he reached it, he turned back. "Goodnight, Wilson."

"Night, House."


	2. Chapter 2

For once in his life, House didn't analyze what was suddenly going on between Wilson and him.

If he did, he would reach conclusions such as Wilson was feeling too vulnerable or some load of bull similar, so he simply tried not to think. Just go with the flow. This was too important.

Of course, he still wondered if Wilson was going to snap out of it any day now, if maybe his pain medication made him more loopy than was originally suspected. But as the days passed, he became more and more certain that this was not the case.

He was true to his word.

Every night, he appeared in Wilson's room. Every night, they would start out talking and laughing and insulting good-naturedly, then end up kissing - sometimes fiercely - as if they could not get enough of each other. Which made sense. It had been about twenty years coming.

House was extremely careful not to put any physical pressure on him, as he was still frustrated with himself from the very first time they had kissed for forgetting that Wilson was hurt, and continued to be sore from the surgery. However, he w_as_ improving.

Every night, on those when they couldn't seem to get enough - they attempted to see just how far they could go without attracting the attention of of night nurses or occasional janitors. It wasn't far. They both turned out to be complete chickens.

But every night, they grew a little more desperate. House could hardly stand the supense any longer.

One of those nights, while Wilson's warm hands moved up his shirt, caressing the skin lightly, House made to pull back because he was beginning to fall over the brink of not being able to control himself, but Wilson stopped him.

"No," he said, his breath shaky, "a little further."

House felt lost, as only the younger man could render him. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know, just - don't stop."

He shook his head, running his palm down the length of Wilson's arm. "If I don't, I won't be able to."

Wilson groaned in frustration. "I hate - we can't keep doing this, House. You're _killing_ me. Please, just - go sit over there," he said, pointing to the chair House so frequently occupied.

Hiding his chuckle, though he was equally as frustrated, House stood and limped over to the chair.

"So, you want me to sit here so we can torture ourselves with eye-sex?"

Wilson tossed an arm over his eyes.

House snorted. "I'm going home." He re-stood and crossed to the glass sliding door.

Before he exited, he turned back as he usually did, and said, a mischeivous glint in his eye, "I'm sleeping in your bed, by the way. Never knew you used Suave for men."

"Yes, you did," Wilson groaned, an arm still over his eyes. "Get out."

Smirking, House left.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The practice of secret-kissing was discontinued, much to House's displeasure.

Luckily, Wilson's condition was beginning to improve very rapidly. He could now roll about in a wheelchair within the confines of the hospital. It was predicted that he would be ready for release in just one week.

It was the longest week of House's entire life. Excluding the time period of his infarction. And perhaps the time Wilson resigned from their friendship as a result of Amber dying.

But, _finally_, the day came.

House helped Wilson prepare, gathering his belongings, which included the many cards and flowers he'd received from nearly everyone in the hospital. He dumped a majority of them in the trash.

Once he was all set, with final check-ups and release forms signed, the two of them walked side-by-side out into the lobby and then out the hospital's front doors. Nothing out of the ordinary.

They climbed into House's car.

As they headed away from the property, glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, Wilson broke the odd silence to say, "I have a surprise."

"So do I," House replied gruffly.

"No, I'm serious. I think you'll like it...uh, eventually."

"I _know_ I'm gonna like it. You're gonna like it too."

"Do you want to see it now, or...wait?"

"I'd love to see it now, however, waiting is probably more sensible as I'm driving."

House smiled when Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Okay, it can wait then."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Home Sweet Home," House announced as he pushed open the door to Wilson's apartment.

Wilson entered behind him and closed it as House set the load of flowers upon the couch, along with his cane.

"Whoops. That took up all the couch space. Bedroom it is, I guess," he shrugged, grinning at the sight of Wilson standing there, fidgeting.

"You know," he said, "most people would run away in screaming terror from your blunt forwardness."

House stepped closer to him, his gaze intense.

"But you got used to it years ago."

"Yes," Wilson agreed, swallowing visibly. "I did."

House closed the gap between them and gently pulled Wilson in by the waist. Gentle, because he was still afraid of hurting him.

Their hips brushed, Wilson's slightly above his own despite the fact that he was taller of the two. After running a hand through his brown hair reassuringly, their lips met.

It soon turned into all of the pent up desperation and need of the past few weeks. Years.

Shifting his weight onto his good leg, House shuffled them forward until he had Wilson successfully pressed against the wall next to the front door.

One hand moved up to grip the back of his neck, while the other remained where it was, squeezing his hip.

And then, without warning, Wilson pushed him away.

House managed not to protest (or fall over), but stared at him in open confusion.

"What have we been doing?" Wilson asked, sliding into a panic as if it were a greased rubber glove.

House's stomach plummeted. This was exactly what he'd been anticipating. Dreading. Wilson was coming to his senses at last.

"Aw," he whined. "Don't break our rule."

"_What_ rule?"

"We're not supposed to talk about it. It's unspoken."

"But we need to," Wilson said, still leaning back against the wall.

"Okay," House said slowly, as if he was speaking to a two-year-old. "I'm blue, you're red. Let's make purple."

"It's not that simple and you know it."

"Sure it is," House insisted, determined that he was _not_ going to let Wilson get away this time. "We are two human beings who have always cared for each other. We _care about each other_. It is natural, at some point, to want to _take_ care of each other."

He had no idea if he was really making much sense, but he was willing to do or say anything to save the situation. Wilson was, at least, fixing him with a rather encouraging expression.

"Don't even _think_ about saying, 'You're my best friend,' or, 'You're a guy,' or, 'What will people at the hospital think?'. What do you _want_?"

Their eyes were locked. House was pleased to see Wilson look taken aback.

He didn't answer.

House took a tentative step closer to him.

"Wilson...what do you _want_?" It had suddenly occured to him that maybe he wasn't ready for sex, which was perfectly understandable. But he had certainly seemed ready for it days ago. "Is it this?" he asked, gesturing between them. "You're not ready for this yet?"

"I - I don't - you're asking me what _I_ want?" Wilson stammered in a joking sort of tone.

House gave a half-smile. "Answer the question."

Wilson glanced down at their feet and back up. "I just want us to be normal," he admitted quietly. "Normal like we've always been - uh, kind of. Friends. But we've always been more than friends, haven't we?" Their eyes locked once more.

House had never in his life felt such affection for someone. Here Wilson was, having put himself back together, only to come undone again.

"Yes," he agreed. "But I don't want to talk about what we've always been. I want to talk about what we _are_. What we're becoming."

He left it at that, knowing that Wilson would pick up and say something profound.

He watched as his friend took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"House - somehow you manage to make me feel ridiculous over things that are really very important."

House frowned, not sure how to interpret that statement.

"The thing is - I can't decide whether you really _care_, or if this is just another game to you to see how I react," Wilson told him, staring determinedly, a hint of apology in his eyes.

House felt his breath catch in his chest.

"I must be one _hell_ of an actor," he snapped. "How do you _not_ know something like that?"

"Well, you just - " Wilson began, his tone now apologetic. "Everything's a joke to you."

"So, according to me, the past twenty years have been one huge comedy sketch?" House asked, furious, hurt, and bewildered.

"I thought you didn't want to talk about what we used to be."

House rolled his eyes impatiently, and turned away, limping to the back of the couch.

"No, listen, I'm sorry - that was cruel - I know you care. But do you care enough to take it a step farther without pushing me away in the process?"

House whirled around. "God, you're an _idiot_."

"What? Why?"

He ran a hand down his face in frustration. "You don't seem to get that _you_ are the only person I've _never_ tried to push away. I don't _want_ to push you away! I pushed Stacy, and Cameron, and Cuddy away because they were not _you_. I had an affair with - " he stopped.

He had never told Wilson about the woman he'd found during his stint in Mayfield.

Wilson abandoned the wall to come stand directly in front of him. His brown eyes had softened and had a slightly dazed look about them.

"Who did you have an affair with?"

House wanted to reach out and touch him - he was so close. His arm, his hair - whatever, but he held himself back. If Wilson didn't understand...he cleared his throat.

"In Mayfield," he said grudgingly, "I met a woman named Lydia. Keep in mind - this was after you hung up on me. She was married, but I slept with her because she had these huge, beautiful...brown eyes."

Wilson blinked. "House - "

"Forget it," he said harshly. "Apparently, it all means nothing. It was all a joke. Sorry I screwed with you for so long."

He was going to stop there, but another wave of anger overtook him, and he continued, "No, actually, I'm not. You're a bastard." - He ignored the hurt expression on Wilson's face at these words. - "I was there when your first wife left you - bailed you of a damn jail in New Orleans - I let you stay with me when your third wife cheated, rised my _life_ so that you could be happy with Amber, and then you gave up our _friendship_ - "

"Because I was so ashamed that I almost killed you too! And scared of losing you one day - " Wilson interrupted, raising his voice. "You pointed that out yourself."

"And you risked _your_ life, knowing that I would be alone if you died, just to help your self-important jerk of a friend that you refuse to even speak to anymore!" House nearly yelled, dismissing his comments.

"You know that's not fair," Wilson told him. "He would have died."

"_You_ could have died."

"But I _didn't_."

House sighed. "Damn it, Wilson. You know me. You know how I _am._ If I can't be myself and trust you to know what I'm really saying - "

"I _do_ know," Wilson assured him. "House, it never occured to me that you might feel that way. You're so cold and distant that it's easy to forget that you have real emotions just like the rest of us. But haven't I always been the one to catch the hints? Better than most people?"

"How could you have missed one as big as, _I care about you so much that it causes me physical pain_?" House asked, wanting nothing more than to punch sense into the man in front of him.

Wilson shook his head, a tiny smile threatening his serious features. "I'm sorry. Maybe I was just afraid to believe it because thinking about it made me feel something I didn't think I ought to be feeling." He gently grabbed House's hand as if he knew exactly what was on his mind.

House flinched at the contact.

"No," Wilson said firmly. "You were all ready to jump my bones a minute ago."

"That was before I realized you were blind," House responded, avoiding his gaze. "Blind people aren't usually attractive."

"Oh, come on. Be a big boy," Wilson told him, leaning forward. Before House could stop him, he had pressed his mouth into the crook where his neck met his collarbone.

Wilson then let go of his hand to push the flaps of House's jacket aside. He snaked both arms around his middle and continued the movements of his mouth.

House could barely breathe.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation they had gotten themselves into hit him.

This person, kissing his neck, was _Wilson_.

The knowledge overwhelmed him, and all he could do was wrap his arms around Wilson's shoulders and bury his face in his hair.

Wilson placed one more kiss to the side of his neck before returning the gesture.

They embraced as if seeing each other for the first time in twenty years, and swayed slightly in time with their pulses.

Finally - _finally_ - they were together.

No more jealousy to cope with, or relationships to destroy. Wilson was _his_. In what universe was this possible?

"Just so we're clear," House said softly into his ear, "no more girlfriends."

The kiss Wilson laid on him then expressed just how clear they were on that statement.

"No," he breathed back. "No more girlfriends."

House rested his forehead against Wilson's, sliding his palms down the length of his arms after removing them from his own waist. Their fingers linked.

House kissed him. Wilson squeezed his hands.

"Do you understand - ?"

Wilson nodded against him. "I should have realized when...you told me that you loved me."

"Why?"

"Because there's no way you'd have said that without..." Wilson stopped, blinking in what appeared to be revelation. He didn't continue.

"What?" House prompted.

Wilson blinked again, and stared at him intently. "You're right. I'm an idiot. That was a _huge_ moment! You - you _never_ would have dreamed of saying that if you didn't mean it."

"Well, of course I - "

"Wait. But to say it, you had to have been sure that it was all going to work out. Because - and don't deny it - if you thought that we were going down the tubes one day, you would have been scared to death of saying it. Which means that you _know_ it's going to work, which means that you trust me. And you trust yourself, which means that - " Wilson's expression transformed into pure wonder. "You've changed, House."

House smiled an uncharacteristically tender smile. "I haven't changed. I'm still an ass. I'll still do and say horrible things to you."

"But you _trust_ me," Wilson said. "_That's_ what's changed."

"I've always trusted you."

"Not with relationships. How do you know I won't give you up for the next leggy blonde who blinks in my direction? How do you know this won't ultimately ruin our friendship?"

House pretended to think hard about this, then feigned figuring out the answer. "Ooh, I know, I know - um, because you love me too much?"

Wilson laughed. "See? You've definitely changed, House. In all the ways that matter."

"Mm," House murmered, kissing him. "If you're the result, then I'm okay with it."

"Wow," Wilson whispered, grinning. "What happened to you?"

"I learned something in Mayfield."

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"If I'm not honest with the people in my life - I'm not happy. Simple as that. You should try it."

"I _am_ honest with people," Wilson said indignantly. "I never had the insane desire to shut them out and turn into a hermit."

House pressed his lips to Wilson's forehead, letting it linger, and replied, "Right now. Be honest with me."

Wilson looked up into his eyes, confused for a split second. Then he seemed to catch on. He smiled lop-sidedly, displaying his nerves again. "I'm - not ready yet."

"Okay. You want to watch TV?"

Wilson responded by slowly running both hands through his thinning hair, watching his face in what looked like fascination, then engaging him in a deep kiss.

When they parted, House asked breathlessly, "Are you trying to _make_ me jump you?"

Wilson kissed him again - and again - then pulled back. "No. Sorry. Um, I still have a surprise."

House frowned. "Must be a good one if you'd rather think about that than - "

"It has to do with that actually," Wilson said hastily.

House raised both eyebrows, honestly surprised and no doubt, intrigued. "You bought a sex toy. Jimmy, m'boy!"

"No, I did not buy a sex toy," Wilson refuted, looking scandalized at the very idea. "Listen, I'm - I'm thinking about moving into another apartment."

House stared.

"This ones - well, I mean, this one's...old."

House scoffed, his interest instantly peaked. "Yeah. Now, the real reason." He almost heard Wilson roll his eyes.

"Well, I think we could both use a change and some more space. Bonnie said that - "

"Bonnie?" House asked sharply. "Cuddy mentioned Bonnie. She and Lucas are looking for apartment too...You're going to buy it out from under her, aren't you?"

Wilson sighed. "That was the plan. She told me to stop by there any time today or tomorrow before seven to check it out."

House lifted his wrist and checked his watch. "It's already six-fifty. That leaves us plenty of time to cuddle on the couch tonight."

Wilson snorted.

House grinned, but never broke their gaze.

"Oh you're - you're serious?" Wilson realized. "Alright then. Might as well put in The Notebook."


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson's ex-wife had stopped by the hospital a couple of days before to give him the key to the condo because she had known that she wasn't going to be able to make it either of the offered days.

So it was with bated breath that the two of them stood alone outside the wooden double doors.

Wilson placed the key into the lock, shared a quick glance with him, and turned it. The doors opened.

As they cautiously stepped into what seemed to be a pretty good-sized entry room, House, frowning, found himself impressed by the high ceilings and detailed foundation. Looking around, they continued into the living room, which contained an elaborate fireplace and a spectacular view of the city. House made his way over to the former, while Wilson headed the opposite direction, toward the kitchen.

There was nothing really interesting about the fireplace; he simply needed the time to work on getting the frown off of his face, along with the guarded expression.

He had never been comfortable with change. Recently, he had been getting better at it, but there was only so much he could take. But, he had to admit, the place was nice. Spacious. And if Wilson wanted to move out of his own apartment, he couldn't exactly stop him. Well, he could, but his heart wouldn't fully be in it. There was no point.

Yet, he wondered _why_ Wilson was doing this.

He turned, the question on his lips.

"Bonnie told me what Cuddy bid," Wilson stated before he could open his mouth. He had already been scrutinizing him.

His eyebrows furrowed and he settled for a puzzled stare. "You're gonna out-bid her?"

A hint of a smile dawned Wilson's mouth. "We do need a bigger refrigerator."

A corner of House's mouth lifted as well as he continued to stare.

"She hurt my friend. She should be punished."

House ignored the effect those words had on him, and smirked. "You got angry. I'm proud of you."

Wilson glanced around the room thoughtfully, and then asked, "Do you like it?" His tone was hopeful, but restrained simultaneously.

House shrugged. "I can see myself doing you in here. Cuddy doesn't mind?"

"If you do me? I think she'll live, I mean, she had her chance."

"You're stealing her dream home. She's just - okay with it?"

"She doesn't know it's us. I've changed our address to a P.O. box."

"She'll find out eventually," House said skeptically.

"Like I said," Wilson smiled, unconcerned. "She should be punished."

"Okay, but just to let you know," House said as Wilson hopped up onto the kitchen counter and flipped open his cell phone, "It doesn't upset me anymore that Cuddy and Lucas are moving in together."

"Hello, Bonnie," Wilson greeted, never taking his eyes from House's face. "I'll take it."

House head was nearly spinning. He hated change. But as he mentally examined the past year of his life, he knew that he had undergone more of it than he had in a lifetime. He'd detoxed from Vicodin, moved in with Wilson, been genuinely happy, gotten crushed by Cuddy, found solace in Wilson, who he confessed his love for and had it reciprocated, and now he was about to move into a brand new apartment without so much as an argument or bout of manipulation or blackmail.

"Baby steps," he joked as Wilson listened to Bonnie's enthusiastic chatter.

They stared at each other from across the room, and House suddenly knew, without being told, that they were moving in together as well. The real deal.

The thought should have scared the piss out of him - it was commitment of a whole new level - but it didn't. In fact, he was exited. Oddly...liberated.

He limped over to Wilson and stood directly in front of him. Wilson shot him a curious glance. "Yeah, uh-huh," he nodded. "It's great. How soon can we - I move in?"

House grabbed the phone out of his hand, holding it out of reach when the younger man made a swipe at it. "And by _we_, he means he and I, Gregory House. We're together now, and it turns out you were absolutely right about the sex. He's fantastic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to hang up on you. Honeybuns is stripping." He closed the phone and set it aside nonchalantly.

Wilson gaped at him.

"_What_ was the point of that? And what do you mean she was right about the sex? You told me that - " he turned red, "You told me that she said I was _bad_ in bed. And how would _you_ know if I was fantastic?"

"Touchy, touchy," House teased, placing his hands on Wilson's knees. "Relax. Bonnie told me that sex with you was basically heaven on earth. I think she suspected we had the hots for each other."

"Yes, but - "

"We'll still get the condo. We're all adults here."

"Like _that_ matters," Wilson pouted. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "You do _want_ the condo." He said it like a statement, worry flitting over his face.

"That depends," House said, looking him in the eyes. "Will it be _ours_?"

Wilson blinked, staring at him, then smiled gently, but didn't respond.

"Don't you think that's moving a little fast?" he asked in mock-concern.

"Well, damn. I was about to propose."

House grinned. No, he was not intimidated at all at the prospect of living with Wilson. Nothing about their relashionship was changing, really. Just their proximity and level of intimacy.

As if confirming, House slid his hands up Wilson's knees, giving him time to grab his head and kiss him. House's grip tightened, and he yanked him forward so that he slid about an inch across the countertop. Wilson wound his arms around his neck, almost painfully, wearing a look of intense concentration.

Their one, long, continuous kiss transformed into short, fire-fueled ones placed wherever was convienent in no time.

After a minute of this, House began to pull back to suggest that they go back to Wilson's apartment, but the younger man apparently wasn't having it. He tightened his grip around House's neck, and trailed kisses over his entire face.

House closed his eyes, enjoying it for as long as he thought he could before he knew they needed to get out of there.

"Wilson - no, _Wilson_ - stop, we have to - we have to - _mm_!" The rest of his words were smothered by Wilson's mouth. At least, this way, it was a bit easier to concentrate. Somewhat.

Just when he was beginning to forget what he had been trying to say, Wilson broke them apart. "You said something?" he breathed, his tone taunting.

"Bastard," House growled fondly. "You know - hot and spontaneous on the kitchen counter sounds incredible, but hard surfaces are killer for my leg."

"Yes, I do know," Wilson agreed. "That's why I stopped. C'mon."

House stood back as he hopped down and they headed for the double doors, arms brushing.

Wilson made sure to lock up, and then they stepped into an elevator to take them back down to Wilson's car.

An empty elevator.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In the car, while they sped along the highway, House found he couldn't control himself.

Glancing over at Wilson, who was determinedly staring straight ahead, he slowly reached over and placed his hand in his lap, causing him to jump very slightly.

"Jesus, what are you doing?"

"Concentrate on driving," House told him, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

As Wilson squirmed, House gently rubbed him through his pants. He was hard. Interesting.

"_Not_ a good idea..." Wilson groaned. "So not the time..."

"When _is_ the time?' House asked in a low voice. "You said you're not ready yet - you feel pretty damn ready."

"Because I have an idea in my head," Wilson told him, removing his hand, "that it should be...special. Kitchen counters and cars are not my ideal locations. So, there you go. Taunt me as much as you can before we get home - you've got about two minutes."

House didn't put his hand back. "I'm not going to taunt you."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't your current apartment be considered a special place?"

"I...guess. I don't know. Is it special to _you_?"

House shot him a look that plainly questioned his sanity. "No. It's an apartment."

"You lived in yours for fifteen years," he pointed out.

"Yes, and you know why that is. What's going to make it special to you, Wilson? A bed of roses? Champaigne?"

Wilson gripped the steering wheel so that his knuckles turned white. "I thought that - if you could wait until we move into the condo - "

"Why is it that you have so much patience?" House asked, his stomach sinking.

Wilson's apartment loomed into view. He was silent until they parked in front of it, at which time, he turned off the car and turned to him.

"Do you have any idea how long we've known each other? Any idea how important you are to me? I don't want this to be some hasty decision based on the fact that we couldn't control our sexual urges. I want it to be _sure_ and...memorable, and - with no regrets attached."

House patted his hand. "Alright - " He cleared his throat as if to prepare for an Emmy acceptance speech. "You are the one thing in my life I'm _ever_ sure about, _everything_ we do is memorable, and...I've made a lot of mistakes regarding you that I've regretted, but you know that. There's no way in hell this could be one of them. So what do you think? Just right? Maybe a little overdone?"

"Just right."

Suddenly, House figured it out. He squinted accusingly. "You're screwing with me."

Wilson's eyes widened innocently. "Why - why would I - "

"Because," House interrupted, grinning. "This is what we do. You're trying to make things feel normal, aren't you?"

"I'm _pretending_ to withhold sex from you to make things feel normal?"

"No, you're _screwing_ with me to make things feel normal. You don't really want to wait. You want to torture me. You _want_ to see how long I'll actually honor your wishes before I jump you. It's a game. Because you know that's what makes us work."

Wilson shook his head, but House detected amusement.

His grin grew wider as he ruffled Wilson's hair. That was sure to annoy him. Sure enough, Wilson scowled. "C'mon. Let's go in. You're too damn smart for your own good."

"Does this mean we can do it?"

"What?"

"Go roller-skating."

"No, we most certainly cannot go roller-skating."

"But, _Mom_ - I just got new skates," House whined.

"What is that supposed to symboloize?" Wilson asked, opening the driver's side door.

"I don't know, it seemed to fit in with the metaphor."

"You're an idiot."

"You like it."

"Grow up."


	4. Chapter 4

House watched his best friend exit the kitchen from his spot on the couch, and go into his bedroom for a shower.

He had, for a reason he had not yet come to fathom, decided to play this twisted game, and so far had refused to do more than kiss him. It was hard in every single definition of the word possible, but he was not going to give Wilson the satisfaction of giving in - using _that_ word in more ways than one as well. He could play this. He _knew_ how to play. His plan (one which drove Wilson absolutely insane, though he refused to admit it), was to act like nothing had changed. They talked, they laughed, they ordered take-out, drank beer, watched TV - perfectly ordinary activities for friends and nothing more. And then, at the very end of the day, before Wilson turned in for the night, House would stand and kiss him deeply, and follow him to bed. Wilson never complained or insisted that he sleep on the couch, and while they laid next to each other - they never touched. Actually, if he was honest with himself, it felt like the natural thing to do. After all, they had never had any sort of physical contact before that night in Wilson's hospital room; he was still getting used to simply kissing.

Mindlessly, he flipped through channels on the television, contemplating getting up to make something to eat, but he waited too long - soon, the sound of the running shower shut off.

"House!" a raspy voice called, sounding echoey from the tiled bathroom.

"What?" he called back, still flipping.

"I need your help with something!"

He suspected before he even stood up that this was sure to be a trick of some sort. Nevertheless, he limped his way into Wilson's master bedroom, and hovered right outside the closed bathroom door.

"Forget how to pee?" he asked, banging once on it.

"Not quite - " the door opened to reveal Wilson, fully dressed in flanel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, but very damp. The smell of shampoo and steam wafted toward him, as his eyes clapped onto the bandage dangling from Wilson's fingers. "My hands are too slippery." He held it out.

House smirked. "You don't need that anymore."

"That's why they supplied me with two week's worth."

Still smirking, he snatched it, and pulled Wilson against the doorframe. "Stay still." Slowly, he lifted Wilson's shirt, taking care to lightly brush the bare skin with his fingertips - he didn't miss it when Wilson gave a slight shiver in response - and then handed the hem to him so he could continue to hold it up.

It was the first time he had actually seen the scar. Though it was fading and healing just as it was supposed to, House couldn't help frowning at it. This wasn't meant to be a part of Wilson. As he looked down at it, and the younger man looked up, he realized how close their faces were, and began to unwrap the bandage, which was really more like a giant band-aid.

Wilson held his shirt under his chin now, looking down as House attached it to his chest, where it stretched almost fully over the scar.

"There. Completely unnecessary, but that should do you," he said, unmoving.

Wilson, obviously reluctant, lowered his shirt, forcing House's hands out of the way. He looked back up at him, his eyes sad, which, this time, indicated either disappointment or concentration - he couldn't decide.

"It's _too_ necessary," he disagreed quietly.

House, as gently as he could, kissed his nose. It was crucial to keep away. "You're dying for me to touch you," he accused in a very low voice. "That's understandable. I'm dying to. Too bad, I guess."

"Think about how easy it would be to give in," Wilson told him. "I'm standing right here, fresh out of the shower, practically begging you to make a move. Think about how simple it would be to get these pants off. No buttons, no zippers, no belts..."

"None of those are even _half_ the reason..." House said, trailing off. He leaned in to kiss him again, the smell of his wet hair very alluring, and the way his eyes seemed to smolder, and his words - but he pulled back at the last second, shaking his head. Too close. Wilson cursed softly, grinning.

"Just give in."

"No."

"You understand that we both want to - desperately?"

"This is _your_ game, don't forget. Has Bonnie called you back?"

It was his belief that once they moved into the condo, the game would be put to an automatic end. It was like home base in his mind. He now regretted more than ever, hanging up on her. They had never gotten to hear when it was okay to begin moving everything.

Wilson nodded. "Yesterday. We can be moved in by Thursday."

It was Tuesday.

"What? Why didn't you tell me this _yesterday_? We could have had the moving van here _today_!" House said through clenched teeth.

"Why do we need a moving van? We're not taking the furniture."

"You know what I mean, then! We could have been packing."

"I wanted to piss you off."

Growling, House cupped Wilson's face in both hands and pressed a furious kiss to his mouth. "Congratulations, you bastard."

He didn't need to see Wilson's self-satisfied smirk as he stalked from the room to know it was there.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Thurday arrived more quickly than he had expected. This probably had something to do with the most recent case he had been working on - a particularly complex one that required nearly all of his attention. He hadn't even had time to hastle Wilson in his office like he usually did. They'd had lunch together once. But, he had since solved it, and was currently focusing his energy on the fact that the apartment was now devoid of men's clothing, guitars, kitchen supplies, bathroom supplies, and other belongings. They had packed them up in boxes and suitcases, which were piled equally into both of their cars.

It looked like it was only going to take one trip. Of course, House would have to come back for his motorcycle somehow, but he would worry about that later.

He stood in the open doorway, listening to Wilson gather some last minute possessions from the bedrooms, and decided to go ahead and leave.

His keys dangled from his hand as he turned and went into the hallway that led out of the building. Wilson might want some time alone at this point. This _had_ been Amber's apartment after all. Calling out to inform Wilson of where he was going would only alert him to his...kind and thoughtful intentions, and he most certainly could not have that sort of blackmail hanging over them.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"So...this is our home."

"Ayuh," House said shortly, in an accurate impression of an old, wise man from the Maine area. "Sure is."

"And this is our couch. Which you bought to annoy me."

They stood directly behind indicated piece of furniture, gazing down at it - House, fondly, because he had succeeded. He made no comment.

"Or, let me rephrase - you bought it to annoy me _further_."

"Further?" House asked innocently, turning his head to look at Wilson.

"Yes."

"However do you mean?"

Wilson placed his hands on the back of the deep orange couch, his fingernails scratching at the material lightly. "We have no place to sleep."

"And that's my fault?"

"Uh, yeah, it is. I told you to go pick out a bed - or at least a mattress. We're both going to be so sore tomorrow..."

"You should know better than that," House scolded. "Mattresses can lead to very dirty activities, now can't they?"

"Whew, yes. Sleeping is so horribly inappropriate."

"Oh, relax. Look - " House limped around to the front of the offending couch, and sat down on the far right cushion, then reached down to the brown lever on the side, and pulled. His feet popped up from the ground along with the footrest. "See? The one on the left does the exact same thing. We'll be fine for a night."

Wilson exhaled in frustration and stalked off toward the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the eight beers House had bothered to go out and buy instead of the mattress. When he returned, he sat on the far left cushion.

"You're not annoyed about our sleeping predicament," House told him. "You're annoyed about my reasoning behind it."

Wilson turned to him, setting the beer down in the cup holder provided in between them. He hadn't opened it. "I could have sworn you wanted me, House. All that...groping while I was in the hospital, and you said things to me - whispered things to me. Practically shouted your love and desire when you got me home - how foolish of me to consider those _signs_ that you wanted to get into my pants."

House's eyes flashed with aforementioned desire (because it was getting more and more difficult to resist, now that they had reached home base), but managed to choke it back, and responded, "I'm sure you're very aware of how stubborn I can be."

"But _why_? Why now, when it's so clear - ?"

"You started this game. This is punishment."

Wilson raised both hands, his eyes closing as if he could not believe what he was hearing. "Are you serious? Punishment? You - we both - I - oh, forget it. This is ridiculous."

House spent a few enjoyable moments watching him squirm, and watching the gears turn in his confused head, before tugging a walkie talkie out of his jacket pocket, and speaking into it.

"Mission accomplished. You can bring it in now."

"_Rodger that_," a voice said, sounding thoroughly irriated.

Then, he spent a few more enjoyable moments watching those deep brown eyes widen, and watching the younger man's head whip around when, behind them, the wooden double doors burst open, and two men carrying what seemed to be a king-sized mattress entered the room.

"Where do you want this?" asked the owner of the same voice that had come from the walkie talkie. He was the bigger of the two men. Of all four men in the room to be accurate. Wilson gaped at them.

"Put it back that way, biggest bedroom," House told them, pointing.

The other man, who was thin and had no hair, was trying his hardest not to laugh, but failing dismally, which appeared to piss off his companion.

"There ain't nothin' funny about this, T." The man who wasn't T looked over at House accusingly. "You had us hide out back for two hours! If you hadn't paid us a crapload in advance, I'd be kickin' your ass."

"Good thing I paid you a crapload in advance, then," House replied, uncaring. All he cared about at the moment was the way Wilson was looking at him. That barely concealed smile of gratitude, forgiveness, and affection was worth a million pissed off delivery guys, and their amused partners.

When the sounds of a large mattress being moved into a bedroom faded enough, Wilson punched him in the arm. Hard. "You're a jerk."

"But I'm _your_ jerk," he shot back, rubbing his arm in mock-indignance.

"I've given up trying to figure out why you're so mean to me," the oncologist grinned.

"Oooh. Putting on the cute and innocent act now, are we? Can we role play? You be the young school girl with about two years worth of flirting practice, and I'll be the big bad fifth grader all the good one's go for on the playground. Of course, this means I'll have to hit you as well. Cameron once told me that, according to Freud, if a person feels they can't control an object, or feel threatened by it, they act negatively toward it. Like an eighth grade boy _punching_ a girl. I guess that applies to both our cases. So there's your answer."

"Right. We're just...two wild and crazy guys, I suppose. Uncontrollable."

There were two grunts from down the hall, mixed with a muffled _thump_, and an unrecognizable voice called, "Well, guess we're done here!" before the men appeared again in the living room.

"It's much appreciated, gentlemen," House nodded at them. "Now get out."

The larger one shook his head in exasperation, while the other waited until he was out the door to wink, wave, and _then_ split.

"That's the spirit," House told Wilson in approval, who smiled.

Wilson really does want it to be special. Not really a game.


	5. Chapter 5

House swiped Wilson's unopened beer can as the latter got up from the couch to retrieve a few blankets from one of the boxes stacking the floors.

As he popped it, he thought about their friendship, and how it had taken them so long to give it that push it needed, into something more. How neither of them had ever realized that they were simply dams waiting to be broken; the smallest clue would have done the job. The smallest, _serious_ clue, rather. He thought about Wilson in the hospital, weak and just having escaped death, and scowled to himself. That was what it had taken for them to finally see and understand the truth about each other. The _both_ of them were too damn stubborn for their own goods.

Even _after_ they'd admitted their feelings, they'd basically refused to touch one another. And House...really, really - _really_ wanted to touch Wilson. He couldn't last any more nights without it; he thought of the day they had come home from the hospital - that had been the closest they'd come. He recalled pushing his best friend against the wall, kissing him, one hand on his waist and one on his face - and then later, the two of them locked in a fierce, emotionally-guided embrace. The smell of Wilson's hair and the feel of his body, warm and solid, was comforting and...wonderful. Minutes later, they had settled on the couch, still in each others' arms, and, though they hadn't put in _The Notebook_, they had necked like one of them had just returned home from a war. It had been a very enjoyable evening, to say the least, though it hadn't ended up very physically satisfying. _Emotional_ satisfaction had been enough that night, and continued to be, but they both knew that they needed more. Soon.

House looked around. Wilson wasn't in the room any longer. Frowning, he glanced into the kitchen - he wasn't there either. Just as he was about to get up and follow him eagerly to the bedroom (for where else could he have gone with an armful of blankets?), the younger man appeared from that direction. House stopped, his hand on the orange armrest, and observed as he leaned slowly against the wall, half hidden in the shadow of the hallway.

"Greg...?" he asked quietly. He seemed to be nervous, by the way he thrust his hands into his pockets, and glanced down at the floor.

House closed his eyes as his heart-rate increased, and he was suddenly unable to swallow properly. There were footsteps, and he felt Wilson standing in front of him. He felt him lean down, and felt hands on his face, tilting his chin upward and smoothing what was left of his hair back. "Greg," he said again, and House opened his eyes.

"Since when are you allowed to call me that?"

"Since you began allowing me to do _this_ sort of thing," Wilson answered softly, caressing his face. "Will you...come sleep with me? I mean - you know, come to bed - " His cheeks became tinged with pink - the same color they had been on the night House had first kissed him.

"I know exactly what you mean. And the answer is yes, to the first one."

He made to stand up, and Wilson stood back to let him. He'd forgotten where he'd put his cane, but it didn't matter; he had an arm to lean on if he needed it. And he decided that he did, simply because it was an excuse to not have any distance between them. Wilson knew this. He wrapped an arm around his waist, bumping their hips. But before they even started down the hall, House turned into him, burying his head into the crook of his neck, and began kissing the skin he was met with repeatedly. He couldn't tell if the color that then flooded the area was due to pleasure or irritation at his stubble. However, Wilson leaned his head to the right, giving him more access, so he guessed it was the former. House unbuttoned the first few buttons of his pale blue dress shirt, his lips moving lower and lower.

"I love you," he murmured. "And it's about damn time we did this..."

Simultaneously, Wilson began to work on House's shirt, but there were no buttons on it, so he tugged at the hem until House got the hint and allowed him to pull it over his head, at which time he resumed his own mission, now with the added twist of Wilson grabbing his bare waist and running his hands up his back.

"We're idiots," a raspy voice said into his ear. "And...woah. You're a lot smoother than I'd imagined."

House gave a chuckle from deep in his throat, while pushing the dress shirt from Wilson's shoulders. He pressed soft kisses across his collarbone, sliding his hands down the pale, bare arms and linking their fingers. "God, you've imagined it...that's a lot of pressure, you know."

"Mm...You haven't? I think people perform better under pressure," Wilson said thickly, tilting his head back.

House swallowed the lump of arousal that nearly choked him, and kissed back up his throat, ending with a peck on the nose. "C'mon, Jimmy boy. We can't stay in here all night. We've got a brand new mattress to break in."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

"House - !" Wilson gasped, his legs spread, and not a single stitch of clothing on either of them.

The older man barely heard him; he was far too busy trying to map out every freckle or birthmark on his body - or at least, his upper body. He kissed and nipped and licked at the oncologist's chest, shoulders, face, and neck, his arms encircling him, while they moved against each other like transverse waves. It was as if they were drowning, and could not seem to be able to come up for air.

Wilson, his arms flung out to either side of him, did whatever he could, whenever he could, but House was finally unleashed, and there was not much he could do except groan, sigh occasionally, and keep creating the friction. He actually growled at one point, causing House to curse and attack his mouth.

They did rather a lot of this, never going any further - until, suddenly, and with impressive strength, Wilson rolled them over, taking care not to put pressure on his bad leg, and raised himself up using his elbows.

Breathing heavily, House looked up at him, his eyes bright with unshielded desire; Wilson returned the gaze just as intensely, and put their heads together, their breath mingling. "I need you..." he whispered hoarsely.

"Correction," House managed. "I need _you_. I want you to do it."

"You're sure?"

"Oh...Wilson," he breathed. "Just...fuck me."

His best friend laughed, though fire might as well have been shooting from his eyes. "You watch way too many pornos." He then spat onto his fingers and touched them to House's sensitive opening, probing and prepping. House pushed on them, inhaling sharply.

At the moment Wilson plunged into him, he couldn't contain himself - he cried out loudly from both pain and an odd sort of pleasure. Wilson stifled the cry with his mouth, ran a hand through his hair, and shushed him soothingly.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "We have to get through this now or we'll never be able to do it. Ever."

"You're a genius. Next time, it's your turn." Though the sensation was unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable, the pleasure part of his brain and nerves wanted him to go in deeper. All he knew for sure was that he was immensely enjoying the fact that Wilson was _in_ him; the more that fact registered, the more pleasurable it became, until his muscles were almost fully relaxed. It didn't take long at all for Wilson to pick up on this - he must have been in agony at not being able to move.

"You're not as tense," he commented, kissing underneath House's jaw. "Are we good?"

"Good..." House repeated, not exactly paying attention, and bringing Wilson's head down so their lips could meet. He ran two fingers down his spine, causing the younger man to inhale and kiss him harder. "We're so good..."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was an hour and a half later, and both men were completely exhausted.

Wilson lay, draped over his good side, sort of curled around him, his face pressed into the space between his neck and shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

House was doing the same, lying flat on his back. He ran a hand through Wilson's sweat-dampened hair, his head spinning with numbed disbelief.

After a few minutes had passed, their breathing slowed to a normal pace.

"The game was fun while it lasted..."

Wilson laughed softly. "Meaning you're up for another round?"

"F - _hell_ no."

His best friend sighed against him, and began to trace small circles around and around his middle with his index finger. They were quiet for a moment until Wilson inhaled leizurely and pressed a gentle kiss to his neck. "You're wonderful."

House's eyes closed as he smiled to himself, verbally unresponsive. Only Wilson would say something like that. Well, perhaps Cameron would have, but she was no longer in the picture, and, frankly, he didn't care. He made sure their heads were touching, and trailed his fingertips down the length of Wilson's arm, raising goosebumps. He thought about mocking him, but his heart just wouldn't be in it. Wilson really did consider him to be a wonderful person, and he was grateful for that. In fact, he loved him for that, along with so many other reasons...

The hand that had been tracing circles around his middle, slid over to his damaged right thigh, ghosting over the healed would. House tensed reflexively, but just as soon relaxed when he realized that, of course, Wilson wasn't going to hurt him.

"I want you to understand...you don't need to be - " the younger man paused, seeming unsure of how to phrase his thoughts. He shook his head. "Just - I love you _very_ much, House."

"I know, you sap."

"I'm just telling you."

"I know," House repeated, grinning lazily. "We're in love, yadda, yadda...Mind if I fall asleep?"

Chuckling, Wilson sat up and looked around for the blankets he had brought in after the mattress guys had left. House watched him blink in surprise once he spotted them near the bathroom door; House vaguely recalled grabbing them while flat on his back and flinging them there. Wilson seemed to recall it as well, and shot him an amused glance before getting up to retrieve them, pulling on the boxers he found near them as he did so. House did the same - luckily his own were right next to the mattress. Now that the pleasures of sex had faded, his leg was beginning to ache. Wilson returned, threw the blankets over him, then immediately exited the room. A minute later, he came back with a bottle of Ibuprofen, and a glass of water, and set them on the floor next to House's side of the mattress. That was when House realized he'd been rubbing at the dead thigh muscle. He nodded his thanks.

Wilson walked around to his own side, and slid underneath the covers with him, and right up close. He shivered once while House gulped back three pills, then gently placed a leg over House's good one for what he knew was a desire for body warmth and a desire to be as close as possible. The older man turned over on his good side, pushing Wilson onto his back, and tossed an arm over his middle, his head on his shoulder.

"Oh, okay," Wilson laughed. "Role-reversal here?"

"No," House replied. "At least, I don't see it that way."

Wilson squeezed him. There was no other word to describe the act. "I'll see you in the morning, House."

"Sure. Maybe we'll go furniture shopping."

The last sound House heard before dropping off was the sound of Wilson's low, dreadful groan.


End file.
